


Do I Want To Know, Do You Feel Held By Me?

by RodeoQueen



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Body Worship, Creampie, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Mirror Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, Reader is any Gender, Smut, Soft Vergil (Devil May Cry), Top Vergil (Devil May Cry), Unprotected Sex, Vergil is Bad at Feelings, giovanni's room reference, i'll give you five dollars if you can catch all the hidden references, poetic smut, so many, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RodeoQueen/pseuds/RodeoQueen
Summary: All in all, Vergil is a tempered blade. Plunged into heat and left to the cold, he is only perfected with each night you come to his room.
Relationships: Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s), Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Original Male Character(s), Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 93





	Do I Want To Know, Do You Feel Held By Me?

**Author's Note:**

> _For my fans of Velvet Devotion, where Dante is soft for his lover, you're gonna love this._  
>  -Rodeo

Vergil’s room is a barren living space. However, in its epicenter lays the two lovers, writhing and gasping. 

You moan below him, hands squeezing around his sculpted shoulders. His back is exposed only to his headboard. You throw your head back, making punched out noises as he thrusts into your welcoming heat with reckless yet precise abandon. 

Vergil is constant. He is present in the bruises on your inner thighs and neck, the blue amulet ring on your right hand, the blush on your face, and the breath that leaves you as he continues his motions.

His hair has long been pulled at and his perspiration undoes the pomade he applies. As he stares into the mirror in front of his bed, he does not look at himself. 

You’re sprawled out, thighs against his, hands grasping the cotton sheets and whimpering his name. 

_Vergil….Vergil...Vergil…._

Those eyes that look at him in an undeservingly loving manner, narrow and are bleary with tears as he pushes one of your legs to the bed. You are exposed to him, your gentle sex fluttering fully open in this manner. 

His arms are rooted to the mattress, trapping your chest between his hands. Vergil licks his fangs gently, remembering how you cried out when he marked your pectorals. 

Blue eyes glint in the dead of night and witness how he enters you and draws back to nearly leave, before returning to your entrance. The slickness of lube and your union leave a portrait on the sheets. 

You are the painter, the muse, and the painting. You are the god that sprawls upon the clouds of thine own creation and you are the sun that shines upon itself. You are the apple that the snake hesitated to choose when deciding upon humanity’s expulsion from the garden of God. You are the reason he screams to the sky and you are in the answer that is the echo of his own cries. 

_You...You….You…._

Vergil loses himself in this downward spiral to a higher nirvana. He rips his gaze from the mirror’s ever-changing wanton portrait as he clenches his eyes to focus on making haste for you to come. 

It is hot. Too hot. A warmth that burns and disinfects. This plague, this trauma that has become of him, is scorched from even his bones and leaves him ash-white. 

It is cold. Too cold. The evening chill seeping from the drywall sticking to his skin and becoming a sheen of sweat upon his burdened back. It drips down his flesh and reminds him that he is present. That he has been bestowed your supple form to intertwine with. That you are his purpose. That this is his worship.

All in all, he is a tempered blade. Plunged into heat and left to the cold, he is only perfected with each night you come to his room. 

He is alive only when you breathe his name into his mouth with each kiss. 

He has amounted himself to a simple creature meant for your pleasure. Here, in this grave of a room, he is freed. 

He is not the half-breed King of Hell, he is not the man and the monster. He isn’t even Vergil. He is the blissed moans you sigh. 

A loud cry and a tightened caress take Vergil to his own edge. He spills within you and holds himself there, wishing it could keep. Eventually, you catch your breath and open your jeweled eyes. He is still gazing upon your silken flesh as he relinquishes his position from atop of you. 

He will see every single nude body painted in powdered diamonds and precious inks, yet he refuses to look. He will carve your silhouette out of the clay in the earth and the water gifted by the rain. 

You tense and relax, making little “ah!” noises as the gush of your union with the blue demon is released. His fingers crudely push the fluids back, relishing in your overstimulation. 

The night is old, he has been sated of these midnight desires. He wonders why it is so hard for him to be your lover when the day is born from the rising sun.

He is awkward. He does not hold your hand. He glares at any male who speaks to you or comes by you. He cannot start a conversation. He cannot even use a telephone properly. 

Vergil often asks himself if you feel held by him. A careful hand strokes his hair and he hears the ocean in your heart. But you are no shell. There is no hollowness in your essence. You are the waves of the ocean and he drowns in your perfumed waters.

The blind witness, Vergil ponders himself to sleep, held in your arms and his head on your chest. The answer is lost to the night. Then again, was there ever a need to question your love for him? 

**Author's Note:**

> _I hope y'all like poetic non-sensical erotica. There's more where that came from._


End file.
